An Unsure Game
by Schrodinger's Muse
Summary: He could never appreciate 'magic'. For him, the world fit snuggly into a framework governed solely by nature's equations. But then that enigmatic magician comes along and shamelessly upends his deterministic religion. Safe to say, Shinichi was not happy. WARNING: exploding plot bunnies - please bring your own detergent
1. Chapter 1

A/N Story name courtesy of my father. If it does end up containing explicit material, this story will probably be relocated to AO3. For now, they will be updated in sync with each other (though this version may have heavier editing since doc manager does weird things to your brain).

www . flagfic . com - people who own e-ink readers, use this to save your eyes (remove spaces)

**An Unsure Game**

**Chapter 1**

The magician swept back a cloak pocked with stars, revolving on a precariously balanced stiletto heel as he turned the class' concentration onto the aluminium dinner spoon pinched lightly between thumb and forefinger. With a quirk of lip and flip of hand, he jarred it against the side of a solid metal bowl, the sonorous 'clang' reverberating through the air. Shinichi mentally calculated the wavelength as it passed, the only person in the room aside from the presenter not eagerly pitching forward and balancing on the front two legs of his chair.

"Now," the magician declared. "I will show you all an act of psychokinesis. This – as I have demonstrated – _solid _spoon, shall now be _bent _with merely the power of my mind." The man's eyes shuttered, chest rising with the intake of air, arms rising with it, pulled by invisible strings. The tension simmering in the enclosed room was palpable. Shinichi settled his chin on his hand and peered at the magician under lowered eyes, a small frown tugging at his face.

One gloved hand stroked down the length of the spoon, fingers fluttering while the practitioner's brows knitted, creating steep ravines in his forehead. This continued for a breathless minute – his arms, chest, shoulders seized with a force seemingly beyond the comprehension of mortal minds, spasms forming the deft strokes of an eccentric dance impregnated with obscure beauty. Suddenly, his body snapped silent, eyes the crosshairs of a gun fixed on an unseen point on the far wall. His arms rose, sloughing through the viscous, ether-like substance the air around him had been transfigured into – his fingers releasing their tenuous hold on the bowl of the spoon.

Slowly, the slender neck of the utensil bowed.

A collective gasp as the class took in the miraculous bent spoon, wondered about the magician's ability to wire the physical and mental realities and confirming their decision never to be on the wrong end of his affection.

The magician wore a pleased smile (with condescending qualities, Shinichi noted). He tapped stiff fingers, pad on corresponding pad in a polite request for attention. "This isn't a magic show," he said sternly, ignoring the covet giggles of some of the audience. "Can anyone please enlighten us to the _technicalities _behind spoon-bending?"

"Psychokinesis!" was the immediate answer.

The magician brandished his hat at the offer. "That is what we want the audience to believe. But to us magicians...?" He dropped the sentence, hands extended, opening his chest in a question.

"Ha! Too easy! You just warmed the spoon until the metal was soft and let gravity do the rest for you, and then said it was because you had mystical abilities."

Shinichi paused, arm frozen at a 45 degree angle to his desk before releasing it to sleep on the wooden surface again. The answerer was a boy lounging at the summit of the classroom, lips contorted into an easy grin, hands locked behind brown hair looking as if it had come out of a washing machine. In his case, the 'no feet on tables' rule had been seen and cleanly forgotten, the magician – no – teacher at the front of the classroom wearing a chagrined look at the development.

"…correct, Kuroba. And in the future, please refrain from moving seats lest someone else gets your _germs _on them."

The boy, Kuroba, spread his arms – a blatant imitation of the teacher just moments before. "Why, I'm hurt – I would think people would be _grateful_ to carry my genes." A light puff of grey smoke and a rose with faint golden petals appeared in his hand. Kuroba poised its slim stem between his fingers and aimed it at the magician, launching it like a dart. It cleaved the air, piercing the velvet hat on the magician's head with a quiver.

Amidst the roll of stifled laughter, the corners of the teacher's mouth seemed ready to dust the ground. "You. Will _desist, _Kuroba." A tone that tolerated nothing emerged tightly strung from the man's lips. Kuroba shrugged and tipped his chair back again, hands resuming their position behind his head.

The teacher resumed class with as close a semblance of normality as possible while delivering a speech accented with subtle ribbing at Kuroba's antics. The aforementioned target seemed to be made of a frictionless surface, the insults splashing and running off him in rivulets, his expression never deviating from the amused to mischievous to blank range. Occasionally, during the more attention-imploring snippets of the lesson, he would unleash a monster on the classroom. The first was a parrot whisked from the black hole that seemed to be synonymous with the endless storage capability of his cloak, squawking an indignant 'I don't know' whenever the teacher deemed it was the correct moment to request input from the class. Then a girl clearly lacking any common sense gave it a cracker and hell's minions descended. Several more 'accidents' followed, until by the end of the class, the teacher was wet with an unknown petroleum derivative, his hair dyed a blinding neon blue, with Kuroba's parrot nesting on his shoulder, returning faithful as a boomerang with each subsequent attempt to shoo it away, pecking at the poor man's cheek whenever his skin contorted – in other words, whenever he spoke.

When the bell rang, the teacher fled the room faster than the students

Tucked in the rustle of papers and choir of voices eagerly discussing what they learnt (or didn't learn) during the lesson, Shinichi masked a smile. That man…Kuroba… was not half-bad.

* * *

"Shinichi!" The hoarse voice formed the words with an elated lilt. "You were admitted!"

The boy stilled, hands pausing in the motion of flicking a page. He fingered the crisp corner thoughtfully. "Admitted to?" he asked, clapping the book shut and letting it become the newest addition of a rapidly growing pile snaking it way into the air above the stool it stood on.

"Regerade's School for Aspiring Magicians," Mouri said, eyes scintillating as he relayed the news. "The best in the country – no, the best in the world!"

"Wouldn't private tutorage be more advantageous?" Shinichi rebutted. He paused, eyes narrowing as he studied Mouri's face, noticing the slight tensing of the muscle where his gaze met. The man was declining his question of eye contact. "…and the rest?" he said quietly.

Mouri twitched, the silver watch hugging his wrist suddenly piquing a disproportionate amount of his interest. "Ah… they only give you first choice," he offered.

Shinichi sighed. "Why…" he forced his words, fighting a lead ball lodged in his throat. "…I have no _interest _in magic. The opportunity is wasted on me."

An irresponsible man, Shinichi thought, weariness rising to take the place of the coldness his heart had been clasped in. A selfish man also. But that was to be expected – as the Selfish Gene outlined; natural selection, the advancement of living biology could only be the product of selfishness, a trait slighted in the present hand of morality. He was too aware that he would have been eagerly claimed by any school he wished – feeling as if the path forward was already carved in diamond, unbreakable but for the words Mouri had uttered. The future had enclosed a life spent in the bosom of death, unravelling the single truth behind all 'mysteries', snatching it from the grasp of the supernatural and placing it in the framework dictated by rational science – the religion of theory and observation.

But of course, it was necessary for Mouri to stumble into the same profession, become his guardian and be controlled by shallow pride. Under his watch, Shinichi would _never _become a detective. Only one fish could swim in that pond.

And since all roads led to Rome, or in this case, Shinichi's prospective career, Mouri picked out the singular track running adjacent to them that lead to _nowhere. _Or, nowhere Shinichi was at ease to investigate.

"…It's a good thing, learning magic. Magicians are paid in statuettes of gold and gratitude, and you get to entertain kids. Hey, you _like_ working with kids so that's a bonus! And the places you see – travelling around the globe, performing impossible feats with _royalty_ looking up at you and going 'that's the guy who could contact the supernatural-"

"There's no such thing," Shinichi cut in. The excuses pouring off Mouri's tongue made his stomach want to reject his lunch. The floor swayed as he escaped the man, his face pressed tight as he used the input from sensitive fingertips to fumble at the doorknob. With a click and rattle, it came free, Shinichi desiring nothing more than to ensconce himself in that blessed darkness beyond the doorway and thaw the ice his head seemed to be wrapped in, away from Mouri, whose every word seemed to solidify the numbness in his mind. He flung the door away from him, a sharp crack sounding as it jarred the wall.

Renegrade's School for Aspiring Magicians. He tested the name, disliking it immediately.

3 years, he told himself. 3 more years and you will be free.

The goose-down sheets sank under his weight, clear blue eyes staring vacant at the unadorned ceiling. He would sleep, but the restlessness pervading every particle of his body robbed him of the luxury. He played out the scenes from A Sign of Four in the theater of his mind, dragging his senses from their physical cage and becoming immersed in Holmes' own.

"_I never guess- it is a shocking habit, destructive for the logical faculty." _The words rolled smooth off his tongue. He smiled ruefully. He couldn't _guess, _but he could make hypothesises and thus, predictions – the essence of deductive reasoning imperative in detective work.

He still remembered the sick dread; 3 years of being trapped in a hive of magicians. He had predicted he would fall prey to boredom before the year flitted away. But then Kuroba had teleported, blowing that theory out the window. And thus each lesson, he was drawn – insect to a lamplight – to that single challenging smirk that promised magic far beyond studious levels. Here was a package of mysteries on its knees, _begging_ to be exposed in the light of rationality.

Shinichi was more than happy to oblige.

* * *

A/N 'tis an AU, and the author is god. :3 ehehehehe

Next chap is a button click away.


	2. Chapter 2

**An Unsure Game**

**Chapter 2**

"You must be kidding me! A test; and we just got back from vacation!" Kaito grimaced; leaping from his crow's nest view on the rooftop to re-join the mundane perspective a young girl with brown hair almost as messy as his was beckoning him towards, her eyes frowning.

"You haven't studied at all, stupid. And you keep saying you want to be a master magician," she huffed, and returned to her lunch with a toss of her head that spoke volumes of how food steeply outranked the dreams of her childhood friend.

Kaito raised an eyebrow. "_Magic _isn't something to be studied for," he said, voice airy yet resounding. "It's a quirk of nature – it isn't _explainable._"

The girl on the ground tipped her head to one side, seeds of doubt sprouting across her expression. Unexpectedly, she placed her chopsticks down and turned, heaving her backpack into the snug cavern formed by her crossed legs. The zip came undone with a hollow hiss, her hands swallowed by the opening. The body of the bag convulsed in spasms as she rummaged furiously through its contents, Kaito edging away from the polyester contraption as it stared at him with plastic eyes that looked more real by the second. The front pocket of the bag curved in a grin when Aoko emerged at last with a sheaf of papers, flourishing them with a smirk.

"I need to clean this out more often," she said, and handed Kaito the papers.

Kaito stared uncomprehendingly at the scribbles running across the pages, occasionally broken by severe black lines and marks that resembled 2D light bulbs with the left side conspicuously missing. "What the hell?" he muttered. A prickling sensation on his forehead notified him of Aoko, saucer-sized eyes pinning him with an expression more suitable for someone who had seen a pink elephant tap-dancing in Tokyo.

"It's last year's test," Aoko enunciated slowly.

Suddenly, the scribbles conceded defeated, and grudgingly organised themselves into comprehensible patterns of syntax and semantics. Kaito nodded to himself, a great sigh slipping from smiling lips. "Is that all?" he asked.

Once again, Aoko gave him That Look. "This test will determine whether you pass the class or repeat the year. You don't want to prank the same teachers for two years in a row, do you?"

Her reasoning was impeccable. Kaito snapped his fingers and a frost pink rose popped from the confines of his palm, pristine as if it had been freshly picked from dew streaked gardens (he bought them from the Sale run by the florist across the street from the school, but that was irrelevant to the flower's singular beauty). "A symbol of my gratitude," he said smoothly and presented it to the pleasantly surprised girl.

Aoko accepted it with a smile, a light pink dusting her cheeks.

Kaito grinned. "Ooohhh… is it white today. I'm disappointed, where's your sense of adventure Aoko?"

The faded pink turned into an inflamed red.

"BAKAITO!"

* * *

"Tada!"

The boy fumbled his handkerchief, and Shinichi raised an eyebrow at the bird-shaped silhouette highlighted in that brief moment of distraction. Upon revealment, the pigeon ruffled its steel grey feathers, cocking its head and scrutinising the amateur magician with beady onyx eyes. Prior to escape; it kicked the boy's hand once in a condescending gesture before calculating the fastest route to the window, adhering strictly to the chosen path in its bid to flee the whim of the fool magician.

Shinichi fought the urge to palm his hair as he stated the verdict. _Bested by a bird… oh, why do I bother? _"To begin, you needed a table and dark tablecloth to conceal the open cage with the bird you placed below it. First, you used the handkerchief as a medium for anticipation – since the audience is expecting you to produce a pigeon, you will not draw as much attention when you use those fancy movements to guise when you pick the pigeon up with the handkerchief and immediately reveal the bird when you use the same movement to lift it off for the audience. The bird flies away. The end."

The gaping waterless fish look the boy had succumbed to failed to dent Shinichi's sympathy. He crossed his legs, waiting the 2 minutes necessary for the initial shock to wear off. A countenance closer resembling the species _Homo sapien _at last hoarded the fish from the boy's conscious and the amateur scurried away with a prayer that he wouldn't _completely _fail.

Shinichi sighed, running a hand through dark hair black enough to resemble 'space cadet' blue, a colour so named because of its use in supposed space military training, a theme common in science fiction. He was fortunate the day ended on technical deduction/formulation, wincing at the memory of the performance section of the examination; the recall left the faint taste of bile on his throat. His personality was not built to stand sturdy under the full attention of 30 other people, their gazes little ants crawling across his skin threatening to disturb the tenuous peace he had constructed with a wounded ego from the term long attendance of a school backed against the opposite end of his comfort spectrum.

Watching the performances by the others had increased his sense of isolation. They were all so _simple. _Away from the adrenaline and austerity that was handcuffed to a crime scene, the deception played by these people had no meaning other than entertainment and the production of shock, wonderment… the plethora of feeling Shinichi had no use for because of their irrelevance – merely a waltz of electro-chemical signals firing between specific paths of neurons in his brain.

Even so, he could recall a feeling resembling that of impressed when a student closed the curtains of his performance by vanishing with a flock of doves. The calibre of the act far surpassed the rest, and Shinichi wondered if that person had been another cuckoo chick, perhaps able to empathize with his dilemma. But the recollection of that easy grin and confident bow thrumming with energy had stripped away any self-deception – for that boy's breath and soul was of a performer.

"Hey." A boy with a carefully controlled smile that betrayed the apparent ease of his posture shoved himself into Shinichi's view. "You still have one more, right?" he said, gesturing at the single blank space on Shinichi's examination paper.

"Kuroba," Shinichi recognised.

The boy grinned and swept a stage bow, knees locked and waist low. "Magician, prankster extraordinaire, at your service. But call me Kaito, formality never struck my fancy."

"Kaito, then." Shinichi agreed.

He beamed at the acknowledgement, continuing in a soft voice a touch on the musical side – every syllable pronounced as if in a song. "Now, I will show you a marvellous feat of enhanced development. I have here-" Kaito opened his palm with a twist of his fingers, revealing an egg, "a bird in its earliest stage of development. With my ability to manipulate energy, I will show you the fire that translates to the flame of life – giving it to this foetus and raising it to maturity."

A metallic pan resembling a container of coconut juice was conjured from seemingly thin air. He set it on the table before Shinichi, retrieving a tube of some oily substance and pouring it inside before tapping the egg on the table, the shell caving and letting the golden yolk protected by its white membrane slip into the oil.

"I thought there were restrictions on those," Shinichi murmured as a lit match appeared in Kaito's fingers.

The magician's grin widened. "Restrictions? What restrictions?" he hummed, and tossed the match nonchalantly into the air, eliciting a not entirely surprised gasp from the supervisor. As soon as the flame brushed the oil, the pan broke free from its static state into one of sound and animation, giving birth to a plume of fire, sprouting crimson hands that melded and separated in their battle to stroke the ceiling.

The supervisor had his finger ghosting the dial button, the number undoubtedly that of the fire-brigade.

The flames crackled and reflected in Kaito's eyes, luminous and dangerous, the violet irises changing hue with each movement. He spread his arms, as if welcoming a god and all activity in the room was dropped in favour of the spectacle. He looked like a mystic, Shinichi observed, or the conductor of an otherworldly orchestra - the unnatural blue light of the fire casting the upper half of his face in restless shadow, glowing violet pools where there should be eyes.

And then Kaito brought the lid of the pan crashing down, the room snapping back to its usual fluorescent lighting.

Carefully, the magician removed the lid, and a sigh magnified by 28 lips entwined in chorus became his applause. A small white dove had emerged, a few wisps of smoke webbing its wings before it swept the substance away in flight, stumbling through the air to perch on the east window, basking a while in a stream of sunlight before escaping to join its companions cooing on the branch of a nearby tree.

Kaito swept a bow, rising and cocking his head at Shinichi, a teasing glint to his eye. "So, how did I do it?" Supreme confidence making him seem to glow, elevating the boy's prowess to _somewhere beyond _the eyes of logic.

Shinichi didn't believe in anywhere beyond. "A dove pan," he said, though the light and layers of deception had almost, _almost _tripped him. But that would have been unacceptable.

Kaito quirked an eyebrow, amused. Shinichi stiffened as the magician reached nimble fingers behind his ear, tucking in a stray strand of black hair as he went. "Oh, I see you have something of mine," Kaito grumbled. He withdrew a card that Shinichi was adamant had not been there 5 seconds ago and presented it to him. "Here is my pride. I shall let you take it for today, but I will want it back."

Shinichi's eyebrows reached previously unattainable heights at the smirk Kaito threw his way before the magician sauntered off.

The paper was populated by an illegible scrawl. _'I am the hair of the man with glass eyes and stone skin. A haven for birds, sometimes for magicians. Health warning: stay in the shade to avoid sunburn.'_ It concluded with a simple drawing of a person sharing an uncomfortable resemblance to Kaito, complete with a toothy grin.

Shinichi finger stroked small circles on his chin, his mind an energetic puppy presented with a new toy, the movement assisting his focus and restraining the merry stream of bubbles that had become his emotions. A slow smirk. "Too easy, Kaito," Shinichi whispered, and couldn't decide the appropriate response – happy that the magician had slapped his thoughts from hibernation? Or disappointed that there wasn't another challenge on the reverse side?

His reptile brain worked on the remaining questions in the paper, abandoning his conscious to deliberate on the many methods of repayment. He did not like owing people (especially genius magicians) more than safely managed – namely, any number (real or not) above 0.

* * *

A/N Updates will be weekly if nothing adverse happens (though we're nearing the end of the year and teachers adore saving all the important assignments till the last minute). That aside, chapters 3 & 4 are in the editing stage.

I think the answer to the riddle is pretty easy (though that's probably a creator's bias). Any educated guesses?


End file.
